


You Will Meet A Tall, Dark Stranger

by wintersky (orphan_account)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Crack, Crack, Established Relationship, Fluff and Crack, Fortune Telling, M/M, Out of Character, Sassy Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-15
Updated: 2013-06-15
Packaged: 2017-12-15 02:17:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/844153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/wintersky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Commissioned by KindredSpirit!<br/>Alternate universe: Sherlock is undercover as a fortune-teller, investigating a murder at a carnival, when he meets the hungover and recently-broken-up-with John.<br/>He may not really be able to read palms, but that doesn't mean Sherlock doesn't have a few tricks up his sleeve....</p><p>Crack, pure crack. Hope you enjoy. ;)</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Will Meet A Tall, Dark Stranger

**Author's Note:**

  * For [KindredSpirit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KindredSpirit/gifts).



One rainy night in early April, Molly, Greg, Sally and Mrs Hudson are round at 221B for drinks.  
(Sherlock complained most theatrically, but John insisted….and perhaps persuaded him a little).  
 

After a few hours and maybe a bit too much booze on everyone’s part, Molly surprises everyone by asking “So, how did you two meet?”

John looks at Sherlock. Sherlock looks at John. They both turn to her and say, lowering their voices dramatically, 

“You will meet a tall, dark stranger….”

*******

**_One year ago_ **

John wasn’t quite sure how he’d ended up here, at this run-down little fair in Kent on a rainy Monday afternoon. Perhaps it had to do with the fact that not even twenty-four hours ago, his now-ex-girlfriend Lucy had chucked him- and rather harshly, too- in the middle of a crowded pub.

 “Don’t you lie to me, John Watson! You were checking out her arse, I _know_ you were! You are _unbelievable!_ ” she’d cried, before storming out and slamming the door behind her before John had a chance to protest meekly that _no, he’d only been looking at the-_ _where are you going? Lucy?_

John sighed. In any case, what followed had been perhaps a few too many pints of Guinness, as well as some free shots courtesy of the sympathetic barman (“Tough luck, mate, but she sounded like a piece of work”- at this point, John had been too sloshed to offer more than a groan in response).  
He’d then drunkenly dialled his sister’s number, hoping she’d take pity on him and let him stay the night at her flat.  
When she picked up, sounding bleary and pissed-off, he’d only had to slur Lucy’s name for Harry to understand the situation. With a few choice swear words and an I-told-you-so, she’d reluctantly agreed to let him stay the night, and the last thing he remembered was passing out on her couch at two in the morning.

*******

When he’d woken up, sometime after noon, the sensation in his head was comparable to having his brain crushed by a herd of stampeding elephants. _Elephants with anvils strapped to their feet, yes,_ he remembered thinking stupidly before stumbling into the kitchen for some very strong coffee and, ahm, a _few_ aspirin.  
When he felt somewhat human again, John decided that maybe a walk would help to clear his head. Somehow, he’d ended up at this travelling fair, and here he stood now, gazing blankly at the carousel and rows of faded tents.

John’s head throbbed most uncomfortably. Though the day was a dreary and drizzly gray, the weak sunlight was still managing to drill into his skull and spot his vision black. He winced, and decided that perhaps indoors would be a good idea; thus, John headed blindly toward the closest tent.

The fair was almost completely deserted- due to the weather, maybe, or more likely its desolate and vaguely creepy appearance.  John felt slightly uneasy as he picked his way through the wet grass. When he reached the tent, he stopped, hesitating at the entrance, and called “Hello?” almost out of habit before pushing aside the tatty maroon-and-orange velvet flaps.  
A low voice called “Enter” from the inside, and John gave a start, not having expected anyone to actually have _chosen_ to spend their time at this place.  
But, for some unknown reason and still entirely not sure what he was doing, he gave a shrug and stepped inside.

The dim lighting made him blink, and the air was thick and smoky; sweet-smelling, like incense. John coughed. When his eyes readjusted, he looked around. A few candles burned weakly in holders round the edge of the tent; there was a cloth-covered table in the center, and- _oh._

Behind the table sat a young man, his skin so pale it seemed to glow in the dark room. Perched atop his head was a maroon velvet turban, from which a dark curl escaped. His hands, decked with rings, rested on a crystal ball, and his eyes were sharp and bright. His full lips were curved into an almost-smirk, and John could not stop staring.

The stranger raised an eyebrow and said “Well?” in a deep, even baritone. John gave another start, realizing that he was staring, and promptly blushed crimson.

“Right! Well, ah, I’m not exactly sure what I’m doing here, but I, ah-“

He was cut off by the strange man, who had taken both hands off the crystal ball and now demanded “Hand.”

“Ex- excuse me?”

“Give me your hand.”

 _Oh. Palm-reading, then,_ John thought blankly.

“I, ah-“

“ _Hand.”_

The man blinked expectantly. John swallowed and stepped closer, his heart beating rapidly- _what are you doing?_ But he placed his hand in the fortune-teller’s with only a slight hesitation.

The strange man closed his eyes as he traced the lines of John’s palm with strong, slender fingers.

“Hmm. Ahh, yes...”  
He smiled in a most unsettlingly delighted manner.

“You live in London and came out to Kent for the weekend with your girlfriend. Unfortunately, she’s just chucked you, and as you drove up in her car, you’re stranded. So you spent the night at your sister’s after drinking too much at… The Five Bells, was it?”

“I- how-“ John spluttered. The dark-haired man’s eyes snapped open and he gazed sternly at John.

“I’m not _finished.”_

He closed his eyes again and continued.

“You’re a military man- a doctor, I’d say. But you were invalided home…six months ago? No, five. You were shot in the shoulder- left shoulder- and your limp is psychosomatic. And now, I ask you- Afghanistan or Iraq?”

*******

John gaped.

“A- Afghanistan, but how could you possibly know-?”

The fortune-teller smirked.

“I don’t _know,_ I _saw._ Your haircut, the way you hold yourself, says military. Your face is tanned, but no tan above the wrists - you've been abroad, but not sunbathing. The limp's really bad when you walk, but you don't shift your weight off it when you stand, like you've forgotten about it; so it's at least partly psychosomatic. That suggests the original circumstances of the injury were probably traumatic - wounded in action, then. Wounded in action, suntan - Afghanistan or Iraq.”

John blinked.

“As for last night: your eyes are bloodshot and you’ve been blinking far more than normal, even in this dim lighting; you winced at the sound of my voice. I’d say you’ve got a migraine, and a bad one, at that.”

 _Well, you’re certainly right about that,_ John thought, _but how-_

The stranger kept talking.

“I can feel your pulse in your hand, and it’s fast- nerves, maybe, but no, I’d say a hangover is more likely. So why is a respectable man like yourself incredibly hungover on a Monday afternoon? You’re not an alcoholic; that much is obvious- although your sister is, but that’s beside the point,” he added. He smiled.

*******

  
John grew simultaneously more uncomfortable and more intrigued- and, if he was being honest, ever more distracted by the strange man’s oddly beautiful eyes.  
The fortune-teller barrelled on.

“ _How can you possibly know about my girlfriend?”_ he mimicked. “Shot in the dark, but a good one.”

“Why else would you, an unemployed Londoner, be all the way out here in the middle of nowhere, drinking your brains out on a _Sunday night?_  
Simple. You came out for a long weekend with your girlfriend and then she chucked you."

"Oh, and you're confused about your sexuality anyway, so you're a little relieved that it's over...." he added, almost thoughtfully. 

_"Am. I. Wrong.”_

*******

The fortune-teller leaned back in his seat with a satisfied grin. John was left speechless.

When his command of the English language returned, he stammered out “S-sorry, but you got all that from- from my palm….?”

The fortune-teller laughed. “Of course not; I’m not _really_ a fortune-teller.”

He paused. His ice-blue eyes locked with John’s. The air in the room was suddenly thick with tension; electric.

John shifted.  
  
“Although….” the fortune-teller mused.

He took John’s hand once more, a new spark in his eyes. When he spoke, his voice was deliciously low-

“I _can_ tell you that you will meet a tall, dark stranger.”

John swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry, anticipating-

The strange man stood. He stepped out from behind the table, coming to stand close to John.  
 He took off his turban in one fluid movement, and shook out his hair; thick dark curls fell in his eyes, and he brushed them back, smiling devilishly.  
John took a moment to look, taking him in, and a smile curved over his lips as the other man said, cheekily-

“I’m tall, I’m dark and I don’t know your name. What do you say?”

John was struck by his boldness. He felt strongly and suddenly that his only options right now were to slap the stranger or to kiss him- and with one look at those ridiculously full lips, his choice was made.

 _To hell with it,_ he thought, standing on tiptoe and kissing him hard.

*******

The kiss- hungry, insistent, absolutely _mad-_ ended far too soon. When they broke apart, John could only gasp.

“God, you’re good at that,” he managed.  
The stranger- still maddeningly composed, while John was coming apart completely- said smugly,  
“I know.”

“Who _are_ you?” John demanded.  
“The name’s Sherlock Holmes,” the stranger replied. He winked.

 _No one has a name like that,_ John thought wildly; but somehow, it made sense that _he_ would, this exquisite madman with his _ridiculous_ eyes and fucking _perfect_ lips, _and the way he kissed_ _me_ -

John stopped in his mental tracks, realizing that the man in question was probably waiting for a response. _Oops._

“I’m John- John Watson. It’s, ah, a pleasure to meet you…?” He smiled slightly.

Almost comically, Sherlock offered a hand. John took it with a straight face.  
They shook, staring into each other’s eyes for a few seconds before bursting into giggles.

*******

Sherlock strode to the corner and retrieved a long black overcoat and a blue scarf. He put on the coat and tied the scarf round his neck, where it contrasted ridiculously with the red-and-gold collar of his fortune-teller’s robes. He looked down and grimaced, looking most put-out. John snickered.

Sherlock gave him a _look._ He popped his coat collar defiantly. It highlighted his cheekbones almost startlingly- John was quite impressed, and when Sherlock asked “Better?” he nodded his hearty approval.

He decided right then and there that he would like to spend as much of his existence staring at this man’s face as he possibly could.

“Shall we?” Sherlock asked, raising an eyebrow and jerking a thumb to the doorway.  
John nodded. As they stepped into the drizzly evening, he asked, “So, why exactly _are_ you here, if you aren’t telling fortunes? And, on that note, how did you know all that about me, if not from my palm?”

Sherlock turned to him with a grin playing on his lips and said, adopting a posh accent,  
“Elementary, my dear Watson.”  
Then, dropping the accent- “I never kiss and tell.” He winked slyly and John laughed.

“I’m here on a case, investigating a murder. Quite routine,” he explained.

“Wh- murder investigations are _routine?_ Are you- are you with the police, or-?”

John began to question his decision to leave with this man. Sensing his surprise, Sherlock waved his hand and explained further,

“I’m a consulting detective.”

“What does that mean?”

“Why don’t I tell you all about it over dinner? I know a good Chinese not far from here…”

“Mm, smoothly done. Yes, Chinese would be excellent…”

*******

**_One year later_ **

“….and so we went out for dinner, and then, ah, seeing as I had no place to stay, Sherlock offered to bring me back to his room at the pub for the night….” John trails off cheekily. He elbows his detective and raises his eyebrows, and Sherlock surprises them all by leaning over and kissing him full on the mouth. Their little audience roars, and Greg applauds when John kisses enthusiastically back.

“Well, there you have it,” John says when they break apart. “That’s the story of how we met.”

Sherlock raises an eyebrow and says “Well told. I think you may have left out a part, though.”

John frowns. “And what part would that be?”

“The bit at the end, where we shag.”

John brightens. “Ah! Yes! That’s my favourite bit, there.”

Molly blushes crimson and Greg gives a great booming laugh. Sally just sighs.  
 Mrs Hudson frowns and says “Boys!”, clucking her tongue at them.

John laughs. “Sorry, Mrs Hudson, but Sherlock’s right- if you could all be going, and perhaps refrain from contacting either of us until the morning-“

“-or perhaps midafternoon,” Sherlock interrupts-  
“-yes, I think we have some business to attend to,” John smirks.

He shoos their guests out the door (Greg calls “Be careful with him, Sherlock!”) before turning back to Sherlock and, ah, getting down to business.

*******

_Fin._


End file.
